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Two Gallants
Two Gallants is the first mission in Melody of the Maze. Enemies *Bartleby (1110 Gold, 120 XP, 70 Energy, 5 HP Normal, 6 HP Hard, 7 HP NM) *Barnaby (1110 Gold, 120 XP, 70 Energy, 5 HP Normal, 6 HP Hard, 7 HP NM) Transcript Introduction You press yourself against the wall, enveloping yourself in the last of the shadowy gloom that shrouds the short corridor beyond your cell's gate. There are voices and footsteps approaching from round the corner, where a passage lit by flickering torchlight extends deeper into whatever dungeon you've found yourself in. When the voices become intelligible, two things occur to you in the same instant. One is that the interlocutors don't seem to be paying any heed to the music which accompanies their words -- the harp's strings matching the working of their tongues with remarkable accuracy. If that strange musical support to the statements troubles them in any way, they make no mention of it. The second source of surprise is the nature of those voices. "Terribly inefficient, Barnaby." "Quite so, Bartleby." "It's the third time this week I've been forced to close the tunnels for maintenance." "Why do we pay those wretched gnomes at all, Bartleby?" "I really have no idea, Barnaby." The voices are elegant, the words dressed in the tutored sophistication of noblemen. These aren't thuggish jailors. Perhaps interrogators, approaching your cell to wrest information from you? A grim smile crosses your lips at the thought. But it vanishes in an instant. "I say, Barnaby -- I do believe there's a fellow lurking around that corner." "What the deuce? Has our prisoner escaped, Bartleby?" "A distinct possibility, Barnaby. In fact, I do believe he's waiting to ambush us." "Quite despicable." "Quite." You curse under your breath. How did they detect you? You're sure, with the certainty of one trained as an assassin, that you didn't make any sound beyond that of your quietened breathing. "Knave! Stand forth this instant!" "Yes! I refuse -- absolutely refuse, sir -- to be murdered from the shadows!" The mysterious speakers are no longer approaching. And at any moment they might flee in search of reinforcement. So you decide to act. You step into the lit passageway, your weapon raised and a spell on your tongue. But both blade and incantation falter. Two kobolds stand before you, wearing supercilious looks that seem bizarre on their saurian faces. And hats. Tall, dapper silk hats. Since when did kobolds wear hats? And for that matter, since when did Crenus' forces employ kobolds? Your mind whirls at the implications. "The shackles and gate must have broken again, Barnaby," one of them says, turning to the other. His voice is remarkable -- the very simulacrum of a well-bred, educated human's. "Another bug," his companions says. He turns to his interlocutor as well, making you feel rather slighted by the lack of attention. "I thought we'd cleared out all those metal-eating beetles, Bartleby." "We'll have to close the cell for maintenance. I'll fetch the sign in a moment." "What about the prisoner, Bartleby? We can't just leave the rapscallion wandering around unchecked." "I suppose not, Barnaby. Perhaps we should kill him." "An excellent suggestion, Bartleby." Two reptilian faces swivel on their scaly necks, piercing you with twin glares of murder and disdain. Conclusion "I say, Barnaby," one of the obolds gasps, "we seem to have bitten off rather more than we can conveniently masticate!" He leans against the wall, looking on as his companion tries to fend off your attacks." "I quite agree, Bartleby. In fact, I do believe that I'm about to be-" Your blade breaks through the kobold's guard, the force of the thrust driving his weapon aside, and pierces his breast. He explodes. A cloud of green mist erupts in all directions -- a powerful, whooshing burst that dies in a split-second, disappearing as though it never was. The kobold's silk hat hovers in the air, above the nothingness where his body once stood. Then it falls, hitting the stone floor with a soft thud as though to emphasize its solidity. Now you're fairly certain that something's not right... "Ah, spontaneous combustion," the other kobold says. "A lamentable fate for poor Bartleby." You left hand darts out, its fingers glowing and tingling with eldritch light. Magical projectiles fly from each digit -- like drops of water flung from your skin. The purple missiles strike the kobold across his chest in a simultaneous volley. In the very same instant, the split-second that purple energy meets green scales, his body gives way as though the bonds which held it together have been rent asunder. Once again the saurian body bursts into a green mist. When it dissipates, only the falling hat remains to mark your enemy's former existence. You've killed many creatures, scores of kobolds among them. And you know full well that they don't usually explode -- unless struck by an appropriately destructive spell or given the right kind of alchemical suppository. So either Crenus has discovered and employed a unique and rather absurd breed of the reptilian beings, or... You sigh in contentment. A dream! Of course... You aren't a prisoner at all. During your years of training one of the arcane tutors taught you about lucid dreams, those nocturnal odysseys in which you become aware of your dreaming state and can thus take control of it. She instructed you to make good use of such experience, to spend them practicing your magical arts as you would during your waking hours. Though in truth you instead spent them amusing yourself in rather frivolous ways. As part of that lesson she told you how to recognize dream signs. Her voice whispers in your memories. "Glance downwards. In dreams you will seldom perceive your nose." You follow the remembered advice. And see your nose. Strange... That dream-test never failed you in the past. But then, your dreams have seemed more vivid ever since you came to West Kruna. "In a dream, text is unreliable. It changes when you look away and return your gaze to it." A click of your fingers and a muttering of an incantation causes your index finger to pulse with golden light. You trace it through the air, forming your name in radiant cursive script -- graffiti seared into the empty space, as unwavering as if it was carved into rock. You read your name before glancing to your right. You look back at your eldritch handiwork. Your name is still there, clear and legible -- though the sorcery is already beginning to fade at the point where your finger began to write. One by one you experiment with each of the other signs you were taught, your disquiet growing at each stage. Your breathing is regular -- stifled when you place your hand over your hose and mouth. When your sniff the air, you detect the faint dampness of the surrounding stone. There's none of the scentlessness which usually pervades your dreams. You try to wake yourself, to plunge out of this realm as you did as a child -- when lucidity arrived to rescue you from the horrors which infested your nightmares. Yet you remain upon the stone floor, which seems as solid and unyielding as any you've ever trodden on. The faint harp music murmurs its amusement. This isn't reality. Of that you're certain. But it isn't a mere dream either. There's magic at work here. A fluttering chord either mocks of applauds that revelation. You gaze down the corridor, towards the sound of the enigmatic harp. You have an inkling that the answer to this mystery lies with the musician at the center of the song... Category:Melody of the Maze